


the five times otabek altin made yuri pliesetsky blush and the one time he returned the favor

by roslindie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Heart, I'm sorry my son, M/M, Mutual Pining, OTABEK ALTIN BRAIDS HAIR, OTABEK ALTIN IS A BABEtm, Out, bc who doesn't love pining, boatload of feels, fics, hella lotta fluff, me too fam, otabek altin has little sisters?, otabek altin is a BAD. DRIVER., sick injured! yuri, stab, still a feisty asshole tho, that, um idek, written on a whim and hopefully doesn't break your eyes, your, yuri has a SUPER BAD SHITTY PAST, yuri's cat is cute, yurio likes the bad boys™
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9536474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roslindie/pseuds/roslindie
Summary: otabek pines. yuri pines but it's more subtle™gay.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> here's my random (probably shitty) fic about two dorks in love  
> please enjoy

Yuri had never known much of a home.

It wasn’t something that he liked to think about, even though he seemed to think about it often. There were just some things that you couldn't escape, no matter how far you ran. And he had spent most of the first half of his life doing exactly that. These thoughts still did not leave him alone.

His mind was not as disciplined as his body, not so easily controlled into his daily training routines and strict practice regiment. It wandered where it wanted, especially on the rare off day, when he was left to try and find something to occupy his time other than skating, while his muscles rested. These days he was restless.

He was always restless.

He had always been like this. Unable to sit still, to take even one moment and he had come to realise that that was also a side effect of him not being able to get a hold on his mind. He always had to be busy, working, not give his thoughts a chance to swallow him as they did at night, when all he could dream about was how his father’s hand had looked streaking across the face of his mother, the way his grandfather had looked, crying in his charcoal suit as they had lowered her.

Yuri hadn’t been crying, only five. Her death hadn’t been a surprise.

 

Skating _became_ him.

He let it consume him, take his broken body into its' ice cold arms and even though they were bitter and unforgiving, they gave him a chance. When he made that choice, thrust that last hand out to grab hold of something, anything, to save him from his past, from himself, he knew that there had been no turning back. Dancing across that rink, devoting himself entirely to the sport had become a vital part of him, a highly important organ that functioned as necessarily as his own heart beating in his chest.

If Yakov and Lilia knew about his past, they didn’t bring it up.

Surely they knew.

He still wasn’t able to control how he flinched when someone touched him without asking, how he didn’t eat some nights for being sick to his stomach with remembering hands slipping under his jacket and his shirt, fisting in his long, light hair.

But they didn’t say anything.

It didn’t matter any way.

 

His mother was dead, his father, once imprisoned, was now also, inevitably, dead. It didn’t matter.

Skating didn’t care about who you were.

Once his feet were laced up and he stepped onto the ice wearing those blades, the only thing that mattered was who he was now.

The ice became his only hope, his only way to make himself something, prove to others than he was something even though he’d never believe it himself.

His battlefield.

 

He’d stayed with his grandfather for a year after everything had gone to hell. It had been the most he’d ever known of belonging, of love, as he was cared for probably more than he deserved, fed, protected. But he’d had to leave. He had been so utterly nothing, a shell, used and barely clinging to the edge of his life.

He had been eight when he had decided he would pour everything he had into becoming a skater. He didn’t even know why he’d chosen the sport. Maybe it had been chance, maybe his grandmother’s influence, and his mother’s old love affair with it. Yuri didn't believe in most things- surely not destiny. Maybe it had been the athletes on the screen he had watched, how they entered onto the frozen plane to fight with everything they had, and carve their legacies into the ice while the world watched.

He couldn’t know.

He cut off his hair. The long, shiny pieces falling to the tile floor of the bathroom reminded him that he would never let himself become that vulnerable again.

That year he gave it everything he could offer, and did the same the next year, the year after that, and the next, not stopping the next year, or the one after that, when he was thirteen, fourteen, after having won junior titles left and right, especially not at fifteen when he had decided he had finally made it somewhere.

But it hadn’t been enough. It would _never_ be enough.

Victory was ever so temporary and the desperation that Yuri had to prove himself to the world was ever so infinite.

He would never be enough and it would never end.

Yuri had never known much of a home, and he had thought that he never would. The weight of everything he had seen and endured pushed him every day to work harder than he had ever worked, and every day, he invented new ways to push people away because the hands that loomed around every corner of his mind still haunted him and he had decided, knowingly or not, that no one would ever get that close to him again.

Until


	2. firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what young-uns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am surprised you clicked next chapter but am grateful you are here ??  
> 

"And one, and two and **stop**. _нет,_ you've got to be kidding me."

The room became immediately silent of the sounds of dance shoes hitting the floor and their scuffling as their new instructor for the afternoon stopped the music for what had to be the tenth time in the past two minutes. All that could be heard now was the panting of the athletes, struggling for air in the room that was nothing if not large, but it was summer camp and  _ад,_ it was hot. Yuri was ever so glad that his hair didn't even reach the low back of his neck now, because he could feel sweat everywhere and they had only just started.

After signing in, warming up and stretching, they had got right down to it. It was the first day of Yakov's summer training experience after all, this being his third go around with the camp, his two previous editions probably being the worst months he'd ever experienced in his life.

Well, almost.

Besides the brutal heat of the practice rooms, where Yakov brought in top quality ballet and various dance specialists (Yuri thought they might have also possibly specialized in yelling their lungs out at the skaters), there was waking up earlier than early for morning runs, barely any free time, and Yakov himself, who insisted on lecturing Yuri even on off days.

It was hellish. Yuri's feet had just been about ready to give up after the first hour of steps, his calf muscles burning like the scorching fire of his grandfather's bakery's oven. He wished he could be eating that pastry right about now. He wished he could be anywhere but here.

Tilda, he thought the lady's name was (he couldn't have cared less), had decided that their class needed extra conditioning, seeing that they were _only_ novices. They were nobody's, and Tilda acted like her vigorous training would be the only thing to change that. Her critiques were without mercy, her shouts of "faster" or "higher" or "Иди на тебя, идиот" coming in short bursts of angry Russian, and then, if not obeyed, her hand would follow. Yuri made sure to correct his mistakes as soon as she shouted them. Others were not so fortunate.

So the day had continued on. Hours of sweat and jumps and pain in places that Yuri had not known to be possible. If he let his guard down, stopped putting in as much as he could offer for even a split second, there was the instructor, ready to reprimand him for throwing away his spot, because _черт побери_ this was Russia and there were thousands of young boys ready to take Yuri's place, even in novice. He had to be ready, he had to be perfect. Always.

After lessons he had to deal with his godforsaken pair of roommates, who shared the bunk bed opposite his, as he had thanked the lord, Yakov had not made anyone bunk with him. They were extremely tall, gaunt and strong, and Yuri would be lying if he said he wasn't scared of them. It wasn't that he was afraid they were going to hurt him, it was more that. In them, he saw everything that he wanted to be and at the same time everything he was not.

The road was so long. He still had so far to go. He was only a novice.

The boys both had dark, cropped hair, beholding auras of maturity and endless coolness about them, and they talked about things that Yuri wouldn't have known the first thing about. They would be up late, while Yuri had his head on the pillow facing the other way, pretending to be asleep, sharing what they knew about all these foreign places, about jumps that Yuri had yet to learn and rinks he had yet to touch. He felt so young.

At first, the boys had tried to talk to him. They all spoke Russian, and most were from Moscow anyway, even though one of his roommates was from Kazakhstan. The shorter one, Eduard, Yuri thought he was called, had approached him very quickly soon after they had been shown their rooms, despite the strong please-don't-talk-to-me vibe that Yuri had been emitting. Or that had been what he was going for.

This camp served one purpose only. And that was to learn. To improve.

Eduard's hair was an awkward length, but somehow it made him look more mysterious, with long legs and a talent that was beyond his years.

He said, simply,

"I suppose we'll be rooming together for the month. What is your name?"

and Yuri, shifting his head forward so locks of his hair fell over one eye, simply said,

"Fuck off."

 

He was fully aware that it was extremely rude.

But he was not here to make friends and he would be a fool not to use his innocence as a knife as he always had. Why did people always have to expect pretty things from him? Pretty words, pretty steps, graceful, delicate-

It was the opposite of what he needed, of what he wanted for himself, and it had always been such.

So he used it in the only way he could. As a weapon. It was a surprise, a deceit he could use to prove that he was not at all what he seemed.

He knew what the other Moscow skaters thought of him. How they made fun of him being the 'ice tiger of Russia', made fun of his fairy-like features, made fun of him being a loner who couldn't stop swearing for two minutes. Above all, they didn't know anything about him.

And Yuri wouldn't have wished it any different.

His façade was the only thing he could depend on thus far.

 

Just as the words had finished exiting his mouth, was when the second boy had joined them. Taller, slightly stockier, with dark, dark eyes that frightened Yuri more than anything. They were very, very deep, very genuine, and the rest of his features combined to resemble statues, portraits of Greek gods.

Yuri took a small, unconscious, step back. The boy's presence was a bit deafening. He didn't particularly know why. The brunette stood unassuming, not provoking anything in anyway, not asking anything.

But as the swear slid the last of the way off of Yuri's lips, the smallest of smiles had slid on to the boys.

It was disarming.

 

For a second, he didn't say anything and Yuri wanted to bite back because that smile had become immediately aggravating, but for some reason his mouth couldn't form any words.

He wanted to say "what the hell are you looking at?"

He wanted to say "who the fuck do you think you are?"

He wanted to say anything, but his mind had temporarily stopped working.

 

The boy's smile just grew a little wider, and then, if it were the easiest thing in the world, he outstretched his hand to Yuri in the pleasantest, non-demanding way ever.

His voice was very low, lovely with the Kazakhstani accent, and he just said,

"Otabek."

 

And Yuri didn't quite know how it happened, but there was his hand on the boy's and he was shaking it.

Time slowed.

The boy's hand was warm, large, all-encompassing.

The moment lasted years.

 

Then as quickly as it had changed, seconds resumed their normal duration, and Eduard and the boy were leaving with Yuri still standing there, staring down at his hand. The door clicked shut as if the wind had gently pushed it. He was alone again.

 

Yuri blinked.

Then he immediately felt the blush on his cheeks.

He hadn't a clue how, or why, but this boy had managed to shut down all of Yuri's defenses in a matter of seconds, his deep, resounding voice making the handshake so easy. Yuri had never touched anyone willingly in years. Somehow this Otabek, tall and dark and strong had beaten years of hiding, keeping others away, just with a simple hello.

He'd not even said two words.

His hand had been warm and even though Yuri had taken it, for once in his life it hadn't felt like he was giving anything, like he was being forced.

Otabek's eyes were soft, calm and in his touch, Yuri knew that this was everything he wanted to achieve. More than ever before, Yuri could see that he had found someone who embodied what he had been working for his entire life.

 

The next day, Yuri felt eyes on him. Every time he was asked to demonstrate a step sequence, with every turn, even when he was sitting alone at his table in the lunch hall, Yuri could feel a gaze sitting on his skin, just like the brush of a feather or the slide of a snowflake. It wasn't heavy. It was just there.

He had no doubt that it was Otabek.

And as much as Yuri didn't want to admit it, he had been watching the dark haired Kazakhstani boy.

More than was probably normal or polite.

Then again, Yuri was neither.

He didn't care what Otabek thought of him. Or- well- he was trying hard not to care.

 

It was Tuesday. They had finally gotten a day on the actual ice, after all of this dryland training and ballet, and all Yuri found he could do was watch Otabek. It was aggravating. At least his mind hadn't reverted back to thinking about his past and all of his problems, but it was still majorly annoying that, here he was, trying to focus, but he couldn't, because of some tall, strong, skater who stole the whole of his attention.

He knew that it wasn't just him. The whole arena of Russian Novice skaters and coaches alike, had their focus on the boy, whose skates churned up the ice, with edges deeper than Yuri had ever seen.

He wasn't graceful. He was definitely not graceful in the way that Yuri had been told he was graceful. But there was something there, something that took Yuri's entire being by the reins, grabbed his heart in a vice grip. Maybe it was the deep edges. Maybe it just was the pure determination that slid off Otabek's every move, every time he pressed each blade to the ice he was exerting power, surety and a love for what he was doing that Yuri knew at once, outweighed his own love for the sport.

He could only imagine how Otabek looked in full costume, under the bright lights with the crowd rising to their feet, the swells of noise and cheers and the music dipping and soaring with his jumps and the elegant movements of his arms. Where Otabek was not graceful, he was handsome, gaunt, and princely. It was an overwhelming thing, almost indescribable.

On the ice, he was not nimble, hesitant, but ever strong and Yuri realised, through all the time he had been watching Otabek, that he really was the same off the ice. His clothes, his features that were sharply cut, but that were never mean, his silently held, unwavering calm-

he was everything that Yuri was not, and therefore so everything that Yuri had been striving for ever since he had been young. It hurt more than Yuri could say, to see that.

 

The power was continued in Otabek's jumps. It was clear that the feats of flips, lutzs, axels, loops, had never been an issue for him, and now Yuri was more than a little angry. What was it like to be able to have this, this strength, without having to work your entire life for it? What was it like to not be questioned, not be seen as a pretty doll, a fairy?

He almost wanted to ask.

Shout it out across the rink.

Scream it in his face, just to see how he'd answer.

But he dared not. There was frustration, aggravation there, yes, but there was just as much awe that he was trying to shove down, and he knew that if he tried to talk to Otabek again, it would end in one of two ways- either Yuri would be cursing at him, or Yuri wouldn't be able to speak, just stand there in confusion and admiration. He hated it.

So he just kept watching.

Even that was painful.

There was an emotion growing in him, twinging at his gut. It was saying-

'I want him to notice me. I want him to acknowledge me.'

Yuri hated it more that he had ever hated anything.

 

He observed as Otabek glided into- and out of, another successful triple flip, muscles straining, but his face never deviating from the cool look it was bearing, the tranquility, like he had absolutely no doubts he would land safely. Yuri heard Eduard clapping his approval, and was for a second surprised that he was here, but then he realised again that everyone was, everyone wanted to see what the Kazakhstani skater had under his belt. Unlike Eduard, Yuri had chosen to remain a little more inconspicuous in his observation (or so he hoped), with his hood down, leaning against the hallway wall that lead to the prep rooms.

That reminded him. It would be his turn next.

Sighing, he tore his eyes away from the dark haired boy on the ice and hurried into one of the rooms to get into his practice gear and warm up.

It was easy, since it was routine, he didn't have to think about it much anymore, if at all. Making sure all of his muscles, his whole body was stretched, energized, taken care of, all while trying to drown out the buzz of the rink leaking into the room by playing music through his headphones rather loudly. He knew that Yakov would scold it for him when he came in. But as for the majority of things, Yuri couldn't have cared less.

The song was heavy on the bass and the drums were extremely obnoxious. It wasn't a surprise that Yuri didn't notice the skater entering in behind him as he sat, relaxed, on a mat on the floor. It was only when Yuri decided to switch positions that he caught sight of the tall boy dressed all in black standing by one of the benches.

He was standing up immediately and he could feel his eyes widening.

Otabek’s hands had curled around the bottom edge of his shirt and had started pulling upwards, sliding the material over his head to be wearing only an undershirt underneath.

And he definitely looked as strong as Yuri knew he was. Compared to Yuri’s boyish, adolescent slimness, narrow shoulders and hips- Otabek was all bold lines. Where Yuri’s arms sat small, Otabek’s were already curved with lean muscle, his waist slender but the muscle there too was visible. Even just the set of his posture, his strength accentuated by the straightness of his back and neck, made him seem even to tower even more, made him even more unreachable. He looked as if he could have run a marathon, before coming to perform both his short and free programs without breaking much of a sweat. Even his eyes-

It was then that Yuri realised he had been staring.

_Fuck._

And yep.

Otabek was staring back.

The next thing Yuri knew was that he was blushing.

He gave a curse under his breath.

He saw Otabek’s lips curve, watched his one hand drift up his side and into his black, cropped hair, deep and smooth.

Yuri wondered what it felt like. If it was as soft, as perfectly kept and cool as every part of Otabek was.

Then he realised for the second time that they were still looking at each other.

It was so hard not to die right then and there.

 

He scolded himself for being so absentminded, though, wasn’t this something new, his mind thinking about things other than skating, getting better at skating, his parents or his past. Still. He had to stop staring at Otabek’s abdomen, because that wasn’t something that was particularly polite or appropriate.

Why was he so worried about being polite?

His mind was running in circles.

Yuri felt his ears burning.

Otabek just looked faintly amused.

 

At first, Yuri had thought that he probably enjoyed it, the looking down on people, looming over them, but now, he had heard enough chatter and gossip around the camp to know that that wasn’t the faintest bit true. According to the other skaters, Otabek Altin was the calmest, coolest, kindest person that one could ever meet.

Yuri thought he looked quite amused by looming over Yuri right now, if he had to say. Or maybe it was just the fact that Yuri knew his cheeks were still on fire, and that he looked like an idiot, not speaking, with his gaze moving its way up to Otabek’s toned chest.

_черт побери _

Yuri let himself give a huff, before he whirled on his heel and exited the prep room, only then coming to consider that a) he had left his water bottle and that b) why the fuck had he let Otabek just waltz into _his_ room and proceed to let himself be edged out of it? He hadn’t even been fully through every part of his routine.

It was too late now.

Or that was what Yuri convinced himself.

 

Immediately out of the hallway, he saw Yakov’s face in its perpetual frown staring at him from across the ice. Yuri’s step quickened. He was extra quick to lace up his skates, and even quicker to open the door and slide out onto the ice. It felt like flying, as it always did, and he had missed it.

The new rink was slightly unfamiliar one, though he had trained here in the years previous, so he took a few slow laps, just to reacquaint himself with it, like reintroducing himself to an old friend after not having seen each other for a while. Each rink was a different sort of familiar to him, but they all still took a bit of time to get used to, to be in sync with.

It was then that he got into the boring stuff. The drills, the monotony of his ice warm up. He was itching, more than anything, to jump and the desire had only grown with the new addition of Otabek Altin, proclaimed hero of Kazakhstan who had wooed Yuri’s comrades with his flawless jumps and his amazing edges, who was now standing against the boards. He wasn't even trying to hide his outright staring at Yuri's every move.

It was making Yuri distracted. He needed to stop.

It also made Yuri more aggravated than he had already been, which is to say, quite. He would show them. He would show them that Otabek wasn’t the only one who could jump.

He would show Otabek.

 

Somehow he managed to gather enough patience in him to wait until Yakov deemed him finished his skills and warm-up, to finally start to get to some jumping passes.

He knew that a lot more people had come into the rink since he had started. He wasn’t focused on them, but he could hear the whispers, the footfalls.

Everyone here did know that Yuri could jump, he wanted to renew that belief, but that wasn't the biggest reason he was trying so hard.

The crossovers came as easy as they always did as Yuri gathered speed, feeling every inch of his body and his blades anchoring him to the ice until he drew his leg back, toe out to strike, for what came to be a graceful triple toe.

It wasn’t perfect, and it hadn’t been effortless, but he was only starting.

 

He would prove to Otabek that he too, could fly, could be as tall.

 

A triple flip, and _yes_. Today was a good day. Yuri felt more centered than he had in ages and he wasn’t quite sure what it was but his blades felt like they couldn’t possibly let him down. His entire being was just buzzing with the adrenaline of trying to perform well in front of the crowd that had gathered.

In front of Otabek.

His crossovers came as easy as breathing, and he gathered more speed, heading into a portion of his step sequence just because he could feel something like music coursing through his veins with everyone looking at him. Even if he hated it, he would still show his grace. It was still his greatest asset.

His arm movements were birdlike, fluid, with the twisting and turning of his legs and his blades carving soft spirals into the ice, he knew he had captivated them.

A couple more strokes and he was throwing a Lutz with an amount of preparation that was a hair's width away from causing disaster. But his leg kicked, his pick hit and he was soaring higher than he would have thought considering the lack of build up. He glided out of the jump, like swirling the last letter of a word, easy and effortless.

It was hard to keep the grin off his face.

 

It was at that moment that he had an idea. It was the ultimate plan, and in the seconds it took to think of it, Yuri was already starting to build up an enormous amount of speed, covering the entire rink. His legs were humming, the ice felt as smooth as butter. He could faintly feel his hair flying about his face, the locks drifting across his cheeks and eyebrow bones. Everything was in time.

Oh boy, Yakov was going to _hate_ him. 

But as he rounded the corner, felt the ground gliding away, fluid beneath his feed, he had no doubts that it would be worth it.

Just to see the looks on their faces.

Just to see the look on _his_ face.

He wasn't allowed, was basically forbidden, but...

Yakov could go to hell.

 

Everything happened very slowly, his edges curling into the takeoff of his salchow, throwing him airborne. His arms wrapping tightly, turning while flying-

1 and 2

3 and 4

and then there was his free leg and he was _safe_.

Besides the pull of his skate shaving away at the ice, the sound of his own heavy breathing in his ears, the rink was so silent that you could have heard a pin drop.

 

Now Yuri couldn't help the smile.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Yakov's face turning red, his hat clenched in a vice grip in his right hand. Apparently he had yelled something before Yuri had taken off, but Yuri's ears definitely hadn't registered anything.

He had done it.

The smile on his lips was growing despite his efforts to subdue it.

Looking to his left, he could see Otabek, but Yuri didn't even get to see the expression on his face before the dark haired boy was turning and leaving. Yuri could only guess at what he would be thinking.

There were not many days in the camp after that.

Yuri had never been yelled at more in his entire life when Yakov took him aside and proceeded to grate away at his eardrums for entire hours. He had a couple more on-ice practices, and of course, lots more dance training. Everything was dull, but went by surprisingly fast.

Yuri didn't see Otabek at all after that day. The last week of the camp was so packed that he barely had a moment to consider it at all, what the reason could be. It would haunt him for months after the camp was over.

Yuri didn't see Otabek at all after that day.

But that wouldn't be the last time they came across each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations (please correct me I am armed only with google translate)  
> нет = no  
> ад = hell  
> Иди на тебя, идиот = come on, you idiot  
> черт побери = goddammit


End file.
